spitting water. “I can’t hold my breath!”
“Yes, you can!” I encourage him. “Just take a breath…don’t pooch your cheeks out, silly!” I chortle.
He lets me hold his hands as I guide him, and I rejoice in anyexcuse to touch him. We play“shark,” under the water. We eat chips and mango salsa that Ray’s mom made.
And we talk and talk and talk. Jamie asks me, “So you want to be on TV? The next Cronkite?” His voice has a diminutive drawl I haven’t detected before, like he’s from Texas or something. I love listening to him…
“That’s the plan.”
“I like your stories. You’re a good writer…”
“You like sports, do you?” I ask coyly.
“Not really,” he blushes. “But I like reading your stories.”
“You don’t like sports?! Then you don’t know what I’m writing about do you?”
“Well, I’ve learned a little…watching you play. It’s…very… interesting…”
“And what have you learned?” I tease.
He shrugs. “I don’t know…but I like watching…”
“You’re weird!”
“Shut up!”
“What do you want to be?”
“Veterinarian,” he says.
“Ah hah! Going to take care of dogs and cats and horses and cows, eh?”
“I don’t want to take care of horses and cows, or lizards or birds or anything like that. Just cats…maybe dogs.”
Cotton. I try not to remember him, but there he is. I croak, “That’s cool.”
“Are you alright?” he asks.
I must be green under the gills. “Just thinking about a little pooch I had a long time ago.”
“I love cats,” says Jamie. “I love talking to them. I love the way theypurr. It’s so soothing when I’m nervous or upset.”
“Talking to them? How do you talk to a cat, Dr. Doolittle?”
“Very softly, in a baby-talk way,” Jamie explains, his face pinkening. “It sounds ridiculous, but theylove it. Theyjust purr and drool all over me!”
“Give me a sample.”
“Nooo,” he shakes his head briskly.
“Come on! Please?”
“No way!”
“Please?”
His cheeks bloom. “Tweet didda idda bidda kidda.” His voice is thin, keening, like Mel Blanc doing TweetyPie. “You toe tweet… you toe tweet!”
I’m tickled. “You’re weird!”
“If I’m so weird, go find someone else to talk to!”
The hours pass. We talk and talk. We tease each other. The smile I’ve missed reappears tonight, and I’m in heaven.
“Is that your real hair color?” I ask him, yanking gently on a freshly dyed cranberry colored lock whose tip is so yellow it looks like it’s been dipped in mustard.
He rolls his eyes. “Does it look real to you, genius?” “Well, then, what is your real color?”
“Dark blonde…boring!”
“Ah, so you’re a blonde! So…when you dye your hair red, is that, like, artificial intelligence?”
He snorts glibly. “Well, dyeing my hair can’t be too effective. I’m talking to you aren’t I?”
“Shut up, Doctor Doolittle!”
“Shut up, Walter Cronkite!”
We trade insults, laugh, yell at each other. It gets quiet for a minute, and I begin to fidget. “Well? Saysomething!”
“ You saysomething!”
“I don’t know what to say!”
“Funny…you usually never run out of things to say!” After more awkward stillness, he murmurs, “I wish I had some licorice. Or a cigarette.”
“You shouldn’t smoke.”
“Okay, Surgeon General Koop!”
“Whydo you smoke?”
“’Cause I’m a nervous person.”
I ask softly, “Do I make you nervous?”
He tries to glare at me. Instead I see his heart in his eyes.
He does like me.
Before thinking, I say, “I’ve known you a long time, you know.”
“What?!” he snickers.
“You and I met a long time ago,” I tell him. “In a supermarket. You were with your mom…I think it was your mom…”
He looks away.
“You were two,” I stammer. “I was four…I remember your eyes…”
“You’re undeniablyweird.”
“No…it’s true.”
“You’re lying!” he giggles. His smile makes me glow inside.
“I’m serious.”
He doesn’t believe me.
But as we
“Yes, you can!” I encourage him. “Just take a breath…don’t pooch your cheeks out, silly!” I chortle.
He lets me hold his hands as I guide him, and I rejoice in anyexcuse to touch him. We play“shark,” under the water. We eat chips and mango salsa that Ray’s mom made.
And we talk and talk and talk. Jamie asks me, “So you want to be on TV? The next Cronkite?” His voice has a diminutive drawl I haven’t detected before, like he’s from Texas or something. I love listening to him…
“That’s the plan.”
“I like your stories. You’re a good writer…”
“You like sports, do you?” I ask coyly.
“Not really,” he blushes. “But I like reading your stories.”
“You don’t like sports?! Then you don’t know what I’m writing about do you?”
“Well, I’ve learned a little…watching you play. It’s…very… interesting…”
“And what have you learned?” I tease.
He shrugs. “I don’t know…but I like watching…”
“You’re weird!”
“Shut up!”
“What do you want to be?”
“Veterinarian,” he says.
“Ah hah! Going to take care of dogs and cats and horses and cows, eh?”
“I don’t want to take care of horses and cows, or lizards or birds or anything like that. Just cats…maybe dogs.”
Cotton. I try not to remember him, but there he is. I croak, “That’s cool.”
“Are you alright?” he asks.
I must be green under the gills. “Just thinking about a little pooch I had a long time ago.”
“I love cats,” says Jamie. “I love talking to them. I love the way theypurr. It’s so soothing when I’m nervous or upset.”
“Talking to them? How do you talk to a cat, Dr. Doolittle?”
“Very softly, in a baby-talk way,” Jamie explains, his face pinkening. “It sounds ridiculous, but theylove it. Theyjust purr and drool all over me!”
“Give me a sample.”
“Nooo,” he shakes his head briskly.
“Come on! Please?”
“No way!”
“Please?”
His cheeks bloom. “Tweet didda idda bidda kidda.” His voice is thin, keening, like Mel Blanc doing TweetyPie. “You toe tweet… you toe tweet!”
I’m tickled. “You’re weird!”
“If I’m so weird, go find someone else to talk to!”
The hours pass. We talk and talk. We tease each other. The smile I’ve missed reappears tonight, and I’m in heaven.
“Is that your real hair color?” I ask him, yanking gently on a freshly dyed cranberry colored lock whose tip is so yellow it looks like it’s been dipped in mustard.
He rolls his eyes. “Does it look real to you, genius?” “Well, then, what is your real color?”
“Dark blonde…boring!”
“Ah, so you’re a blonde! So…when you dye your hair red, is that, like, artificial intelligence?”
He snorts glibly. “Well, dyeing my hair can’t be too effective. I’m talking to you aren’t I?”
“Shut up, Doctor Doolittle!”
“Shut up, Walter Cronkite!”
We trade insults, laugh, yell at each other. It gets quiet for a minute, and I begin to fidget. “Well? Saysomething!”
“ You saysomething!”
“I don’t know what to say!”
“Funny…you usually never run out of things to say!” After more awkward stillness, he murmurs, “I wish I had some licorice. Or a cigarette.”
“You shouldn’t smoke.”
“Okay, Surgeon General Koop!”
“Whydo you smoke?”
“’Cause I’m a nervous person.”
I ask softly, “Do I make you nervous?”
He tries to glare at me. Instead I see his heart in his eyes.
He does like me.
Before thinking, I say, “I’ve known you a long time, you know.”
“What?!” he snickers.
“You and I met a long time ago,” I tell him. “In a supermarket. You were with your mom…I think it was your mom…”
He looks away.
“You were two,” I stammer. “I was four…I remember your eyes…”
“You’re undeniablyweird.”
“No…it’s true.”
“You’re lying!” he giggles. His smile makes me glow inside.
“I’m serious.”
He doesn’t believe me.
But as we
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